


Clothes make the man

by collatorsden_archivist



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 17:09:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12437640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collatorsden_archivist/pseuds/collatorsden_archivist
Summary: Sam misses his life in 1973





	Clothes make the man

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Janni, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [the Collators' Den](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Collators%27_Den), which was moved to the AO3 to ensure access and longevity for the fanworks. I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Collators' Den collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/collatorsden/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Not really character death but... Mild Sam/Gene
> 
> Allusions to the series finale.
> 
> Disclaimer: LoM still belongs to Kudos and the BBC.
> 
> Word Count/Length: 1,815 words

Sam pulled at his tie… He felt like he couldn't breathe, restricted, short of choking… He opened the upper button of his shirt and took a deep breath. His hand still at his neck, he felt for the medallion hanging from a fine silver chain. Since shortly after waking up in 2006, he had worn that little pendant permanently. Hidden under his collar, not visible to co-workers and so-called friends…

 

When he had come to on that derelict piece of ground that was soon to be a part of Manchester's "Highway in the Sky", at first he had been so disoriented that he hadn't even noticed all that had felt wrong. In fact, EVERYTHING had felt wrong so when he had jogged out onto the street to find out where he was, he had not even paid attention to how his feet had felt strangely elevated, how his heels had hit the ground earlier than expected, how his legs had felt a tension he wasn't used to. He had been hit by a car for God's sake, he was glad he was able to walk or even run. He had expected so much more damage in that last second before closing his eyes, lying on the street, his face pressed to the asphalt...

 

When he had finally stopped to catch his breath, wondering what was going on, why all the people he saw on the street wore strange clothes, why there were only vintage cars parked along the street, which part of Manchester he was in that he couldn't see a contemporary building anywhere, he had taken a look at his reflection which had stared back at him from the well-preserved Volkswagen... and immediately he had noticed how strange he looked. Had, for the first time after the accident, had a proper look at himself. He had known that something was off... He just had assumed that his skin was tingling from the shock and stress, the accident... At a closer look, he had realized it was also due to the fact that his body was wrapped in unfamiliar fabrics... a polyester shirt, flared corduroy jeans, a stuffy leather jacket... and boots with Cuban heels. And also, dangling from his neck, there was a silver pendant... clearly visible in the deep V of his open shirt collar.

 

That day, those had been the only clothes he had. There had been nothing else to wear although he had felt like a clown. He had sat at the station, clutching at himself, wondering when he would wake up from that nightmare. But no-one had paid attention to his clothes... The others were off worse, he had noticed, wearing dodgy 60s or 70s suits, cheap fabrics all along. They might have been the height of the fashion at some time but... Sam had shuddered at the thought. At least his black leather jacket was "cool." Still, he had wished for a proper suit and something which would make him look more respectable than what he had found himself in.

 

After having discovered that the wardrobe in "his" flat was full of cheap polyester shirts, cotton vests and Y-fronts and bellbottom trousers, not a tie in sight, he had thought that well, he wasn't going to spend much time in this place anyway. No need to go shopping... and where should he go to anyway? It wasn't like there was a department store in town that carried anything he'd like to buy. Dressing "sharp" had not yet been invented, "business casual" was a term no-one had coined yet (and if anyone had, he didn't dare think what that might entail) and even if he managed to find anything remotely acceptable, everyone would stop and stare at him. They didn't know better, they expected him to fit in. Well, at least as far as his clothes were concerned... He'd never fit it with them, that's what he had assumed.

 

His leather jacket had reminded him of his childhood idol Bodie from the "Professionals". He had been a "sharp" dresser of the time. Always in fashion but much more relaxed than James Bond... Not in a suit usually, just when he needed to be. Cool with a leather jacket, a turtleneck pullover and driving gloves... Sam had discovered that yes, driving gloves were something that he still was fond of. Not that he had been driving much in that time and day... and not that he himself had worn them...

 

After a while, he had felt right at home in those hideous clothes. They had fit the era... and they had fit him. He would never have believed it but there he had been, strutting down the street, swaying hips and swinging jacket... He had felt relaxed, had felt free... He also had felt a little exposed, open shirt collar, tight trousers and all - but he had enjoyed it. He felt it was a much more relaxed time back in the 70s... that was, IF he indeed was back in time... He still had thought it was all a dream, that in reality he was lying in a hospital bed, in a coma. All evidence had pointed to it, and who had ever heard of time travel? In real life anyway? But still - he had been there and he... yes, he had enjoyed it. He had to admit that he had felt so much more alive than he had ever before.

 

When he had first fallen asleep on his horrible cot, he hadn't even bothered to strip off his clothes. Let alone take off that silver thing hanging from his neck... He hadn't taken it off when he had stepped into his horrible excuse of a bath, he hadn't taken it off when he had had a shower at the station after June had been shot and he had mopped up her blood off the street. (With the only other jacket he had found in his flat - damn you, Gene Hunt!)... He hadn't taken it off when Gene, yes, the same Gene, for the first time, had traced his finger down his collarbone... He hadn't taken it off when Gene had hooked that finger into the silver chain and had pulled him closer, into a soft kiss. And he hadn't taken it off even when he had removed every other piece of clothing shortly after...

 

Walking around Barbirolli Square in his lunch hour (he hadn't even known what "lunch hour" was before the accident), he thought about when he had first tried to find a locket similar to the one he had worn in 1973. A St Christopher, patron saint of travellers... how apt! He had scoured eBay but somehow, buying one online, as easy as it would have been, hadn't felt right. So he had walked into one of those little charity shops, browsing the store before having a look at the jewellery section. Something had caught his eye... a coat hanging on one of the racks... a tan camel-hair coat. At first he hadn't even been able to breathe... then he had walked closer - he needed to touch it. To smell it. But when he had gotten close, when his fingers reached out to pet its cuffs, somehow everything had felt wrong, the stale smell of the place, devoid of any whiff of whisky or cigarette smoke, just stinking of moth balls and lavender... the feeling of the material in his hands, so cold, lifeless and empty... he had let go as if scalded and run out onto the street as memories and feelings had flooded his brain and he almost had broken down crying...

 

The first item he got was a watch. Fortunately, the Casio he had found himself wearing in 1973 was still being produced. It hadn't been difficult to find one after describing to the shop owner that it should be "retro style" and have an LED display below its face. He had happily placed his multifunctional chronograph back into its box - it had been a Christmas present from Maya anyway...

 

He had finally managed to find a St Christopher at a street market. It didn't show much wear but the seller had assured him that it was quite old, from the 70s at least. Sam didn't have to think - he immediately handed over the 20 quid and fastened the chain around his neck... He felt the small weight on his chest and his breathing slowed down noticably after he had let out a breath he hadn't noticed he had been holding... He stood there, just enjoying that little piece of silver touching his skin... His skin that hadn't been touched for so long... A small sigh escaped his lips...

 

His mother of course had soon noticed the chain around his neck and the missing stylish watch. She knew that it wasn't for religious reasons that he wore the pendant, obviously, but apparently she hadn't dared to ask about it. One evening, when the chain had slipped out and the silver coin-like medallion had caught her eye again, Sam had seen her look and had quickly shoved it back inside, mumbling something about it reminding him of a friend he had lost... someone who had worn one as a charm... She didn't dare ask for more details... and he wouldn't have known what to tell her anyway...

 

He had tried to get back to his old life. He really had... still, he felt like he had lost something, something very important. Trying to loosen up hadn't helped - he still felt like he was in the wrong place... He had thought about trying to find a vintage leather jacket next - not to wear to work, obviously, but in his spare time. If he could find one similar to the one he had had during his... during his "stay in 1973," maybe it would make him feel better? He missed his friends, he missed Gene... and he was afraid of what might have happened to them when they... IF they... He decided that he would search for a suitable jacket on the weekend... A quick visit to one of the shops in Church or Oldham Street next Saturday might even do the trick...

 

He didn't last that long... Standing on top of the police building, looking out onto the city, he felt like he had long overstayed his welcome in this shiny new world. When he ran towards the railing, he felt the small silver pendant flap against his chest. When he flew up into the air, he could feel its round form on his skin, and when the fall began, he felt it flying up against his shirt collar. He brought up his hand and touched it through his shirt, and smiled - because he knew, when he would open his eyes once more, he'd feel it there again.


End file.
